


South London Forever

by Novemberkind1990



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Dancing, Decadence, Drunk Sex, Drunk Texting, Drunkenness, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Loneliness, Seamstress, Self-Harm, Sewing, Sex, Soul-Searching, Swearing, We all have a hunger, designer, drunken, fabric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-02-29 11:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18777184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novemberkind1990/pseuds/Novemberkind1990
Summary: Bathsheba is one of the young and talented designers who clashes into fashion with a haze of excess and hedonism. But being  ao  to fame brings along her most darkest sides but also creative highs - and sometimes all you need is someone to listen patient and carefully.





	1. All the worlds were melting

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my darling friends of the internet,  
> so this one is my first FF for at least a year and the first I'm writing in english. I hope you enjoy this little mess I creating and fall in love with this unlikely friendship like I did, when the Idea hit me.

She made it! It was all done- the applause, the congratulations, the praises. Bash closed her eyes and remembered the final day on set in the most vivid colours. The smiling faces, the enthusiasm. She made it. The room was empty, just her and a empty bottle champagne. Perhaps the minibar? Yes there was Vodka and some Whiskey. Why did it felt so empty right now? She opened her eyes and stared out of the big windows on the right side of her Bed. Three years of work, handsewing at night, her costumes would hit the big screen on Met, an exhibition in the V & A. Bathsheba “Banshee” Foster. The decadence, the drama, the fleeting idea threaded in fabric. The eyelids grew heavy. All the years, and now? Nothing. She was an empty shell of a human shell, running on adrenaline, a haze of hedonism, cheap sex and excessive fabric choices. And behind this Bathsheba vanished more and more, got transparent, like liquifying herself, like the mermaid in Andersens “The little mermaid" - how would it feel like vanishing into little bubbles in the sea? Her stomach started acing.

Must be the pills – tranquiliziers and champagne. Not the very best idea. Neither the sixt glass of Vodka. Warm Vodka tastes horrific, but better than none. And her ylang ylang and fankincense candles. But Tomorrow she would be fine. A little bit heavier, hung over, more dramatic with dark makeup smeared all over her face.

Her dressing gown brushed her legs as she moved onto the bed, a soft rustle of silk, one of the first things she sewed, black silk, making her white skin glow like a dusty pearl, and the red of her hair – as she looked in the mirror above the bed – it was like a deep dark auburn. The blue velvet cushions suited her, may be she should get herself some. A pillow mountain, where she could hide herself, burry beneath the softness of blue velvet. “She wore blue, velvet… bluer than velvet was the night…” the humming soothed her. The numbness of alcohol and pills came like a thick fog, she knew from London. “Maybe a london fog tomorrow” she chuckled – canadian drink for getting up. But, oh gosh she needs sex – right now. The guy from the bar downstairs, the slinky One. Suitable for the night. Her makeup fits, black lace, framing the ripe, curvy figure – “you’re eatable like a plum made love with a grapefruit” some one complimented her. Where was that? Bali? No, was she there or just the illusion of someone said that, after a terrible one night stand. Perhaps she should not do slinky guy, but the guy from the other side oif the room, the piano man, with the black hair, the long, slender fingers caressing the instrument like he was making love to it. Or the club, where she was yesterday – yes… there we go. 

Bathsheba got op, wobbly on her feet – the spinning… She grabbed the Nightstand. A smile on her face, just dancing, she was high enough, and someone to make her feel less lonely. Keep the monsters under her bed quiet. Outside the room she heard noises, the rush of cars, from the thick glass. On the hallway she heard whispering, the carpeted floors made every step so soft, like walking on a cloud. All was calm and quiet. 

She would need a dress, the golden one with fringes. She loves the swinging and drancing, like they were a living thing, an organism on it’s own, like seaweed. Somehow she felt like the room was spinning. 

Then there was a a knocking “Bash?” What on…? “Bash!” She heard a rumble, scratching on the door. „Bash, for gods sake, the whole floor smells awfull! Open the door!” Tom. Like as if the door was translucent she could see him there. All nice and neat, sleeves rolled up. The Hair like as if he came out of a magazine. Oxfords or Trainers? When did she saw him last time? On the final take – god the red brocade, he was ravishing. Red brocade on naked skin. She wanted to throw silver and flitter, cascading golden water and flowers of diamonds around his figure, he was a living, breathing statue. 

“Bash!” The knowing became like a drumming. Normaly she would open the door, but, she couldn’t even get her shoes on. He heard a running noise. He’s gone? Or just waiting. Stars. Oh the whole room glimmers and spinns. “Cosmic… a falling star…” She saw Tom before her eyes. This crystal eyes, fair skin... a male english rose. He faded before her eyes – may be next one a glittery like stars…. 

Bathsheba didn’t even recognize when the door flew open and Tom, accompanied by one of the hotel staff came into the room. “Bathsheba!” Her name, far away. Like a lighthouse in deep dark water. “Bash..? Oh god!”  
Something moved. Her eyelids fluttered. SHE moved.  
“Get an ambulance!” Two arms under her frame. Head fallen over. “Bash, hey!” Soft claps on her cheeks. „Bash, stay awake, do you hear me. Don’t you dare falling asleep.” Blue eyes, panicking. He looked like a saint, with all the glitter and golden light in the room. Next time she should consider making a halo. “CALL THE 911!” 

“Bash, I am here- do you hear me? Stay here! Stay with me…”


	2. We rais it up this Offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello ther,  
> so here we meet Bathsheba at the beginning a year before the opening. Please be gentle with her, she's in a very fragile place.

12 Months earlier :

“Wait, that won’t work Banshee!" Judith looked at her. “It will, don’t worry." Bathsheba used the red silkthread and carefully started on the red corset, she wanted the male model to fit in. Iworking silk is a truely delicate thing, kneeling on the floor stepping on the one part of the pattern to put some stretching effect on it. Soft running stitches, Bathsheba pfreffered to work by Hand, carefully crafted by historical standarts. She used a thimble by leather to work her needle through the fabric. Judith watched the effortlessness Bathsheba radiates in the process, barefoot, wearing a light gingham dess, with a broad ruffle on the hem, hair an open mess, but she is a witch with seams- but a pain in the arse to work with. Just at this moment she decided to screw the whole look, and do something else. Her Model sat there, paitiently waiting. “You know, it would be easier if you have this huge ego, I could hate you more easily.” Judith grumbled and left her. "I know." Bathsheba looked hat her, smiling and hold up the corset part. "There we are, Bela would you be so kind, to try?” No other word than “angelic” would fit her smile, the soft fragile voice she talked in. Bela, a tall, draculaesque young man took the half corsetpart to lay it on his waist. “Did you know that in the 19th century many man would use corsets to make them look more waisted?” She used silvery straps of fabrik to tie it around him. “Really?" Bela has a slight accent. He was german, a young aspiring dancer, one of the coming shootingsstars at the next season. Bathsheba specifically asked for him after she saw him dancing on Edvard Grieg. The whole design wasn’t menat to be decent. Not when it was meant to be a performance. Bathsheba carefully sewd some frilly straps it on his highwaist trouses and put dozends of small bracelets on his blackpainted knuckels, who sounded like thoursands of distant ringing bells. “Are you comfortable?” She asked. Bela nodded “Sure, - but could you do something with the hair? I need it out of my eyes. Before this she had thought of sleek, eellike hair, but not Bela. Bela was >Thunder<, a lighting blast. So carefully she begann brush his hair upwards, spraying it. “What are you doing?!” Judith started panicking. “Don’t you worry, he will be striking. He’s going to rule the heavens.” Bathsheba carefully fixed the upward ravenblack mess. “Oh… you’re beautiful.” She sighed, and started to apply the makeup she designed before. A chalkwhite face, like a geisha, the red lower lip, as a sign that he was still a baby and leaving a bare square at his yes. “Isn’t he striking?” she smiled. “Banshee…” Judith was breathless. Bathsheba “Banshee” as called by her co-workers and collegues was a true, genuine Talent. A true master of the “Totallook”-idea. Her creations were always on point. Bela looked like a modern version of an archaic god, worthy to be worshipped just by one move of his eyeballs. The tall slim man in all this black, silver and red, the ringing of bells, the ravenblack storm of hair. All was carefully put together, as if there wasn’t never another idea, just an hour before the performance. She hugged him. Just out of a genuine way of emotion. She was happy. But not because she came up with magic fairy dust to sprinkle ove something which was just >good<, it was a pure emotion, a deeply felt connection right now. If someone would ask her, whom she loved most right now, she would answer “Bela”, without hesitating. Just for the sake that he was there.  
“I think we should head for the stage.” Bela suggested, slightly rubbing Bathshebas back. “I hope to present you good enough.” He smiled his hopeful boyish smile, which was completely on contrast to his presence. He was made to rule a stage.

 

Bathsheba was backstage, pressing herself on an iron bar, just to hold herself in place. Bela would dance to drumms and bells, no specific tune or composition – it was improvised, like his choreography would be. He looked worried. “What do you want me to do?” he looked uncertain. Bathsheba cupped his cheeks. “Oh don’t you worry Bela. Imagine yourelf being a warrior in a ghostland, where springs of crystalclear water are darkening, from your hands flowers will grow, becoming this magnificent blossom. You move through water, seeing thunderstorm through them.” He nodded. Actually Bathsheba was a wonderous personality to work with, very creative. At their first meeting she was late, very late actually, but her entrance: she came in wearing a pale blue dress, dozends of cheap necklaces, a straw bag, her auburn Hair a crown of messy braids, a fresh flower crown, the waterblue eyes smiling with utter friendliness. They got along very well, when she asked him to join her for a drink later, so they could discuss and she could manage to figure out where he felt comfortable and what his boundaries where- and she disliked school rooms as she mentioned. Acutally she never crossed them. Most others did, just for the sake of the better effect. And, as he liked to think about it, they’re becoming friends. She was somewhat special, coming from an privileged background, parents teaching at King’s College and the St. Martins School of art. Her father economist, the mother art historian – from what he knew about her, she came late to clothing, after studying history then philosophy for a short time, leaving for art school before she begann her education in a Costume College in New York, by a schoolarship. And now she's back in London, finishing the last terms of her studies. "I missed the library in Camberwell.” she said on his question, why she headed back and handed him fresh flowers, she bought on her way to their meeting. So this dance was just hers, not for the audience, not for technical perfection, hers alone and he was her creation. He headed for the stage.

*

“Banshee!” Judith hugged her. “A theatre, they asked if you could design the costumes for their next production!” Bathsheba jumped. “Oh, oh… oh my.. . why ? How?” She felt like electricity running through her veins. “One of their creative directors saw Bela. And he knew him from the dance production he was in. And guess what, and there is a gala several wellrespected actors will be starring in. About modern fairy tales mixed with ancient theare methods, and they want you to dress them up. “ Judith was all over excited, Bathsheba was one of her students, and seeing someone so well off in their profession was a blessing.

Bathsheba was at a loss this moment. Two? But.. oh Gosh how would she manage to create it? Dozends of ideas. She nodded. “Okay, so… when I can meet them? Discuss the costumes and…” Judith laughed. “Just be cool, Banshee, I’ll talk to them, we will meet later. But here are some faces you should get yourself involved with, so you can do your job properly!” She handed Bathsheba a black folder, with Pictures. One slid out, quietly making it's way to the ground. “Oh my…” Bath knelt down and froze. What a beautiful man. She took the picture in her hands. “Tom Hiddleston” was scribbled on the back. Tom… it was an interessting face, delicate features, like made of glass and porcelain. And sad. He looked so sad, she could feel this oozing out of the very picture. He was like a white sheet, with several small tints of colour. Blue, rose, greenish water. "Him. Can I meet him?"


	3. Louder than sirens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there,  
> so after a lot of rethinking, replotting here we are, the next round of Bathsheba. I hope you enjoy.

“So, they want costumes for a new production.” Bathsheba watched the pictures, outstrechted on the floor, full of persian carpets, she looked at the faces. Arthur Miller The Crucible. Okay… The actors who would star in the play, John Proctor, Elizabeth Proctor, Abigail Williams.. oh it would be wonderful, she started to look at the Books about pre-raffaelties, the 17th Century, the long flowy dresses, she looked at the flower prints, at the La primavera and William Blakes  Aquarells, the vibrancy! She took her notebook and starts scribbling.   
“Vibrant,  
 a touch of god I feel,   
but probably it is just the condensed milk I had before,   
the dress needs to be watery like a nymph but chaste.   
I want red brocade for the king!” 

The bell ringed. “Oh.. what…?” It was her telephone, yeah she was oldfashioned in way, not using her mobile phone, she lost it most of the times, same with keys. “Hello?” “Banshee!” Judith Voice shrilled through the phone. “Yeah..?” “Where are you, 30 minutes ago there was a meeting, with Tom!” “Oh…” “Banshee we’re waiting where are you?” Bathsheba was stunned. “At home, I collected pictures…” Judith anger vanished in an instant. “Okay, Darling, I’ll send you an Uber. Don’t leave the house.” Bathsheba nodded sheepishly. “I’ll wait. Say sorry for me. Would you do this? I didn’t mean to offend someone.” “Sure, Banshee, everything will be alright.” 

*

Tom did not know what to think. 30 Minutes late, simply forgetting a Meeting? This Bathsheba seemed not the kind of relatable person he was used to when it comes to work. Her collegue Judith was completely furious in the first minute. She collected pictures for the costumes, okay. But not thinking about set dates ahead? “Sorry About that.” Judith ordered the Uber. “If Banshee wouldn’t be the most lovley person I know, I would smack her head against a wall in an instant.” She was direct. He twitched by this Idea. “I am sure, she will make it. So, why was she so eager for a personal meeting I heard she asked for everyone in the cast.” Judith nodded. “It’s her philosophy, that she calls it >connection<, but I think she studies people to know which material works, how the movement and the fabric would correspond.” Tom looked at her. Judith seemed a bit enthusiastic, about what Bathsheba was doing. Well he also asked Google about her. She made headlines for a design last month. The fragile woman on the picture seemed very bohemian, with the long flowy dresses, the wild red hair and tons of heavy jewellery of amber and quartz. Then the door opened with ah heavy clash. All heads flew around. The source of noise was her! Bathsheba Foster, fallen head over heels in the small café , on her knees. She stumbled to the Table. “I am so ever sorry, you had to wait for me… Thank you to bear my rude behavior.” Her voice was soft, very quiet, not smooth but pleasing. Like she wanted to comfort someone. A shy smile. Her eyes were deep, tranquill. She smiled at him, a shyish- hopeful smile. “Bathsheba Foster. I am so thankful you agreed on this chance to get to know each other.” Tom couldn’t help himself but all his grumble from before vanished. Fairylike, was the best word to describe her. “Tom Hiddleston, Miss Foster. My pleasure.” She ordered herself a coffee, and tea for Judith and him. He saw some eyes following this young woman, in her Maxiskirt, the high-neck blouse and dangling bracelets. When she sat down she took out a notebook, pencils, HB, H, B. “So... you're going to be John Proctor. Is this the first time you play Miller?” She smiled, open interested. He nodded. "On Stage, yes. I’ve read him during my Time at the RADA, and did some scenes. A very complicated Person.” She took a sip of coffee. “Yes. He’s a fallen saint. I loved the film staring Daniel Day Lews, but he was so fanatic, that he left me scared in the end. Even in his decision to die.” She looked at him, so honest and pure, that he believed her. “Yeah, John Proctor is - in a way - very haunting, don’t you think? All the hard working, the physicality, th..." "The sex." She snapped. Tom blushed. “Sorry?” Bathsheba smiled “That’s part of him, don't you think? He works his land, plants, cuts, shoot and he has sex with his wife, and when this pillar of his being is taken away from him, he subconciusly searched for another opportunity to stabelize himself.” Tom was stunned, he wouldn't have thought that the woman before him would be so blunt and insightful. “Yeah, I think you’re quite right. But there is something more in him, he’s struggleing, messing himself in a marriage crisis and don’t know what he should do to fix it.” She used the pencil and scribbled, a very smooth way. He but it was very messy, he could just identify some words like “burnt red – flames – you need a big god. No black.”   
Around an hour later, Judith excused herself and asked if Banshee wanted an uber. “Oh no, I’ll walk. It’s not that far.” She smiled at Judith and waved her goodbye, and They stood in front of the café. “Is this your nickname? Banshee; I mean?” Bathsheba groaned. “She came up with it – as a branding name. And using it ever since.” “And your parents thought of the old testament or Thomas Hardy?” She smiled. “Oh. look.” She pointed at a flower shop. “Just a second.” She got in the shop. Tom was stunned. Bathsheba came out a few minutes later with a bunch of lilac. “They smell heavenly, Tom. Here.” She handed him one. “I am not Banshee, for my friends and folks - just call me Bash.” She smiled radiant. “I hope you’ll be satisfied with what I’ll try to make your John Proctor shine.” In an impulse he took the flower. “So, goodbye for now, my merry friend. We’ll see each other again at the theatre.” In that moment he couldn’t think of anything more enchanting than this weird young woman in her long wavy clothes, with lilac in hands and graphite stains on her fingers.

*

In her flat Bathsheba took out her notebook, and starred at the notes she took. God, this man was wonderful, solid and liquid at the same time. She tought of angels, Lucifer, Lokis Torch, North star. It would be impossible to use black on him, he wasn’t meant to be black. The director contacted her several days ago, that he wanted a nightmare-fairytale to tell. So she wasn’t restricted. “You need a big god…” She looked at her note. “You will need a big one…” She whispered. Than she grabbed coloured pencils and started. Cherry red on the neck, he need greyish colours, green? Grey-blue?  Just a tint more in moss. She thought of simple clothes, trousers, a bit more baggy, and a cloak, he was heavy but meant to be light, turning into air, like the mermaid in Andersens Story. The cloak needs more of a mountain, grey and green, perhaps she could use real moss? Oh yeah, he should smell of nature, heavy, rich, moist soil “Massachussents is a Beauty in spring… It seems there is a special kind of sadness… yeah… Sad spring. That he is…” She looked at the clock. A bottle of whiskey on the counter. Yeah, she could use a drink. Plain, no rocks. She got a glass and opened the bottle.  In long sips Bathsheba started to warm inside. Well not the best thing, not a good old scottish whiskey, but better than non. Second glass. The moss, than… she scribbled on the loose shirt. Like the ones from the 1800s. No, to saggy… Wait.. she bought some fisherman-shirts when she was on a holiday . Yeah, they’re perfect patternwise.

*  
The sewingrooms for the costumes resided in the cellar of the theatre. Bathsheba felt like hiding in some grave. The two ladies who sewed with her were so lovely, both seamstresses and working here for years, their suggestions for alterations were a neverending inspiration for her.  
Currently they handeling the last touches on Abigail Williams, a bright red dress, like a stream of blood, resembling the red details in Elizabeth Proctor and the red scarf she descided to handle for John Proctor.   
Elizabeth war a very mothlike mossy greyish tone, with red “cuts" as she referred to soft perlstrings she added here and there, like open wounds.   
For Tituba she had this baggy teal dress, with fur and fringes, crimson stockings, like a kaucasian figure she encountered, that should fight of the evil.   
But the girls? She was still unsure. They were innocent and gotten into this turmoil. When she witnessed the rehearsals, they were like whiplashes, athletic, but how should she reference to the fragility? “Hey bash! Belas Head popped in. She turned. “Hey. What brings you here?” Bela was here for the choreography, and kept close to here, making sure that the costumes would fit the movements. “You look like you're in deep waters” He smiled. “Oh yes...” She trimmed the last seam on Abigails hem. “The other girls. We have just two weeks and I am still hopeless, when it comes to them.” Bela looked at the woman, in her rosé-dress, hands in several yards of red fabric. He had seen this before. Too much creativity ends sometimes in a blackout. “Hey, take it easy, you have still two weeks – if you want, come to the dance rehearsals, and look what you can find there. We're in room two.” He tabbed lightly on her back an headed out. “Wait, is there anything else?” Bathsheba called back. “Oh yeah. Tom needs a new fitting , when he tried the first movements, some seams held him back.” Bathsheba groaned. “Okay, I'll get it. Send him over, when I am there in a flash.” If he ruined one seam, she had to start from scratch.

The room where the ensemble started was a big white room – Bathsheba heard the stamping, stumbleing and groaning. She pushed up the door and watched captivated. The Village girls were in a triangle, stamping, groaning – something raw, ancient, archaic. Magical! She took out her notebook “Big God – you need one. Big enough to fill you up. Angels on a rampage – falling from grace” Dye, she needed fabric dye! And Neoprene! Oh yes, and a lot of Organza, Gazé and Musselin. A slight tap on her shoulder brought her back. Tom. “Oh, sorry to disturb you.” His voice was low, calming. “No problem.” She looked at him. “So, were is your problem.?” he pointed at the left arm. “it's a bit to tight.” Bathsheba looked at it. From the outside? No, probably inside, and the curve of a seam. “Take it off, and come with me. I need it to reshape.” Tom was always surprised by Bathshebas Voice- she never raised it. She was always in this warm, comforting way of speaking, one couldn't help and not felt comfortable in her presence. The Sewing Room was full of fabric and bits and bobs – a chaotic cosmos, she resided in. “So, lets see.” Casually dropping Notebook and pen on the table, she turned the jacket inside out. “Oh I see...” The seam ripper glided smoothly between the two pieces, and carefully sewing it together by hand. “Here, try it – if it doesn't feel comfortable I sew a new arm.” Tom throw it over. “Much better, thank you so much Bathsheba.” He smiled at her. Bathsheba grinned pleased. “Just the seam. It was a bit to tight.” She grabbed her sketchbook and flipped her notebook over. “You always keep it with you. The notebook.” Tom always saw her scribbling, making short notes and sketches. She smiled. “Yes, yes I do. You know, I loose everything. My keys, my cellphone, passport – but never the book. You keep notes yourself?” Tom looked at the scribbles. “Yeah, but I keep not a regular notebook., just making documents digital.” She smiled understandingly. “It's surely a lot more organized. I tried it before, but I need to write down immediately and I am horrible at being strictly organised. By the way, what do you think works better? Musselin or Gazé?”She got out to white balls of fabric, threw it on the table. White, show-through. “I think the musselin is a bit thicker, don't you think?” Bathshebas Forehead leaned over. “yeah.. yeah I think it is... for the dye... Hmmm. Okay I need red, teal, yellow and black.” she mumbled about. “A bit more tarnished, nothing to bright.” He saw a sketch. A simple skirt, and a bikini? And a veil on the head. A description “Mad women in the woods and flying from the attic.” He looked at the costumes. They were wonderful, when he first saw them, he was just breathless – they were vibrant, and still humble in a way. Everyone in the cast was eager about them, especially because they were very practical in movement. Just some small adjustments had to be made. “So, I just need to go back. See you.” She looked up. “Yeah. See you later.” Bathshebas gaze was very dreamy, like she wasn't there any more.

 

The theatre was quiet, when Bathsheba closed the doors. It was around eight, when she walked around upstairs. It was dark, when she entered the hallway which located the stage. “Hey Bash!” Bela, in Jacket and Backpack over shoulder. “Everything done?” Bathsheba nodded absently. “Yeah... I think it is.” They stood there, a moment of complete silence. “Hey Bela, can you do me a favour?” Bela was irritated. “Huh? Sure, if it isn't illegal.” Bathsheba chuckled. “Can you get me to the stage? I wanna try something.” Bela looked puzzled “What? Like... now?” She nodded eagerly. “Yeah, It won't take long.” Bela nodded, still a bit irritated. “Okay. Just 10 Minutes, you promise?” Bathsheba jumped. “Sure. Nothing fancy, nothing dangerous.” “Alright.” They headed the hallway for the stage, one stairway up, and stood there.

A black Hole! Of course Bathsheba had heard actors talking about, that they can't see anything when on stage, but this deep dark cave? Like a lurking beast, hovering in the dark. She pulled out two Veils, red and Blue. “I just wanna test them. If they are transparent enough.” She explained, slipped out of her shoes, and pulled the red one over her head.   
Whoa, it was scary! She stood stockstill, then slowly made movements with her arms. The fabric floated easily around, just like she hoped. “Hey Bela, can you record it? So I can watch it tomorrow?” She pointed on her mobile phone. Bela nodded and unlocked the screen, searched for the camera and pressed the record button. Bathsheba started walking around, stamping, jumping, throwing her arms up in the air. 

"In Dublin's fair city  
Where the girls are so pretty  
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone   
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow  
Through the streets broad and narrow  
Crying "cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh"

Bela starred at Bathsheba. She looked magnificent, like a vision of fairy. „Now the other one.“ She grabbed the blue one, and the Procedure started all over again.

"She died of a fever  
And sure, so one could save her  
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone  
Now her ghost wheels her barrow  
Through the streets broad and narrow  
Crying "cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh" 

„Looks lovely, Molly Malone.“ Toms Voice echoed through the room. Both turned around like Teens caught at daddy's secret alcohol storage. He leaned in the doorway and smiling, like someone who made a joke, only he could understand. „Sorry.“ Bathsheba pulled down the Veil. „It was just for the movements.“ She packed them together and threw them in the bag. „I can see that, but it suits you, I really does.“ Tom smiled, it was an open, honest smile. Bathsheba smiled back. „Yeah, but it's for the Girls.“ Just in that moment her Phone starts ringing. „Huh?“ She looked at the Screen. „Judith...“ She answered. „Yeah, Hi Judith?“ „Hi Banshee, I just wanted to ask, if you want to come round, I've meet some friends, and were off for some drinks, at the Joiners.“ Bathsheba looked confused. It was eight, she had been in the sewing room at least twelve hours, exhausted. „Sure, Judith. I'll be around in... thirty minutes , I think. Bye.“ She looked at the Phone. „Well, I should go then.“ Bela looked sceptical. „Bash, you are here since nine in the morning, are you sure? Tomorrow you have to be up again, wouldn't it be better to go home, eat something and get a deserved amount of sleep?“ Bathsheba nodded. „Yeah.. but... I think I'll go just for a pint or so, and then go home. The Joiners Arms is not far away from home. And I love Camberwell in the evening. It gets me going.“ She took up her Bag. „So... Bye Guys, see you tomorrow.“


End file.
